


Come Back and Haunt Me

by shewontsleep



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coldplay, M/M, Nightmare, Song - Freeform, dream - Freeform, the scientist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewontsleep/pseuds/shewontsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six separate nightmares of Sherlock's, inspired by the verses of Coldplay's song, "The Scientist." </p><p>The unconscious mind is cruel, is it not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back and Haunt Me

 

 **  
**Red and blue lights blurred by tears, confusion. (So much confusion). A terrible feeling of loss. Empty stomach, empty lungs. Remember to breathe. Searching, searching. Smoke in the air, lovers making deathbed confessions. No time to observe, to deduce. John, where are you? John, John. Weak knees. Chest pains. Dizzyness, shortness of breath. Symptoms of a panic attack. (Symptoms of infatuation). Irritability. Restlessness. Paranoia. More symptoms of a panic attack (and of cocaine use, oddly enough). Find him, find him. Distant yelling, he can't pinpoint the source. Crumple to the ground. Give up. Hands, warm hands. Contrast. (The fear and terror from moments ago, the calm and security of now). "Wake up, Sherlock. You're having a nightmare." _John._

_.     .     ._

John is sobbing, pleading. Words tumble out from his mouth and land in a cacophonous, enigmatic pile before the detective. A different language. Not a single word is translatable. A mix of two, perhaps? German and Spanish? No, not quite. Unsettling. John begs, weak pleas that are impossible to understand. What good is a genius who can't push out the words " _I don't understand_ "? That was his weakness all along, though, wasn't it? A loud crash from far off, more confusing than the words that John is still whining. Eyes open, just a dream. Sit up. Dreams are irelevant. Rub eyes. John is in the kitchen. "Oh, you're up. I ordered Chinese." Sherlock understands. Good, then. (Just a dream).

 

.     .     .

 

Large, white room. Beige floor. Bank? No, hospital. Empty. Unsettling feeling of confusion. Are the walls closing in? No. A normal (empty) hospital, then? Ah, no. A clock on the far wall. Small, black and white, shiny. Too quiet. Clock is counting down. Down to what? A bomb? Is this clock counting down to death? Perhaps. Four minutes, thirteen seconds left. Unfortunate. Sudden longing, sudden need. Where is John? Why wouldn't he be here? Dying alone, then. Once again, unfortunate. The urge to solve, to break down and understand begins to dissolve. Replaced by need (longing, yearning, want, dependence) for John. Air is thin and dry. Dull. Want to scream. Can't. Try harder, then. Loud shouting. "John!" "Sherlock?" "Oh. Just a dream." "Yes." Move on, don't think about it. The unconscious mind is cruel, is it not?

 

.     .     .

 

Short. Shortest one in the room. Small hands, short arms and legs. Smooth skin, short hair. A child. Odd. Being looked down upon. Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, Lestrade laughs. John frowns sternly. Feel ashamed. Feel worthless. Small. Powerless. Terrible feeling. Mycroft appears, tall. Too tall. Arms crossed, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Room is cold, too cold. Goosebumps. Adults murmur things to one another. Insults, surely. Observations. Left without strengths in a room full of one's elders. Uncomfortable. Pout, close eyes. Be a child, be young. (Immature). Open one eye, then the other. Bedroom. Large bed, large hands and long legs. Adult. Stand up. (Tall). Dream, then? Felt real. Of course it was a dream. Not possible to turn into a child for a night. (Is it?)

 

.     .     .

 

Rain and thunder, overwhelming the senses in a way that's blinding. Standing alone in a field. Field? No, of course not. Graveyard. Very alone, surrounded by lifeless bodies. (Buried, but still lifeless). Large tombstone. Old. White marble, softened at the edges. Belongs to John Watson. Raindrops turn to teardrops. How? The only question remaning. How? Lump in throat, nerves. Chokes apologies. Hands on forehead, wake with a start. "You died." Voice too shaky to be familiar. Sounds far off. John looks concerned. "I'm alive, Sherlock." He promises. "I'm alive, but you're sick. Drink this, it'll help with the fever." Okay, John. For you I will.

 

.     .     .

 

Have to run faster. Uphill, cold air. Icy wind and bumpy earth. Keep sprinting, running. Legs don't seem to work. Odd. Faster and faster, just reach the top. The hill turns to a mountain. (Feel a twinge of discouragement). Keep climbing, running, jogging. Just do it quickly. Of course. Coughing, sputtering. There is no sun in view, only clouds. Air is too harsh, feels sharp against hands and face. Cough again. "Sherlock! Sherlock." Wake up slowly. Lying in bed. (Not running). John in doorway, standing awkwardly. "John." It comes out like a whimper. Continue anyways. "Stay." (He does).

 

 

 

 


End file.
